Delicate Freak

No longer a flower or even dainty, she’s now just a delicate freak, sweeping litter and leaves off the steps of her house, muttering about how young people dress. When there’s a tattoo she hates as much as that memory she can’t avoid, she shouts invectives practiced for years in that office job where she perfected her resentment. The steady breeze disperses her syllables into gibberish and those strolling the sidewalk wave and smile until her frustration can only make her laugh.


copyright 2015, by author